


Bellanaris

by vivisextion



Series: Ar lath'an: This Place of Love [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Fingerfucking, Fluff and Smut, Humour, Love Bites, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Wedding, Riding, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Night, Wedding Planning, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-01-23 14:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18551635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivisextion/pseuds/vivisextion
Summary: My Big Fat Dalish Wedding in 3 acts: pre, during and post. Prepare for cavities, y'all.Consummation smut fun times is chapter 3. You're welcome.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> bellanaris: eternity

“Hold still, dear!” Ashalle tutted. “I’m almost done.”

“I’m trying,” whined Theron. His guardian was painting the backs of his hands with midnight blue dye, until leafy vines crept down his fingers and thick roots branched across his wrists. Not once did her steady hand waver, even with his fidgeting. He tried to keep still, even as his attention wandered.

“There!” she announced, sitting up. “All done.”

Theron gazed at the work of art now adorning his hands, marveling at the way the delicate patterns converged when he put his hands side by side. Just then, he heard a knock at the door of their _aravel._

“It’s me,” an Orlesian accent said, with a distinctive feminine lilt.

Ashalle rose to let their visitor in. Leliana stepped inside, her flowy dress swishing after her. It was made of a wispy material the colour of ironbark, and her fiery red hair was the perfect complement to it all. She looked like an ethereal wood nymph, complete with dainty silk shoes.

“Oh! That looks wonderful,” Leliana cooed, setting the soft package in her arms down. “What a pretty blue colour! Is that a Dalish bonding tradition?”

“Indeed. We tear the leaves of particular plant and steep them, to make the dye. We colour many things with it, but we also paint the hands of those to be bonded with the symbols of nature’s growth, in the hope that the union will flourish in the same way,” Theron explained, showing her the intricate floral curlicues that followed the lines of his palms.

Ashalle put away her brush and pot of dye away, careful not to stain anything. “Now I must go and paint your betrothed, _da’len_. Don’t change into your robes before your hands are dry! Oh, and I still have to get dressed. Creators, there’s so much to do. My little hunter’s to be bonded!” the older elf muttered to herself, as she left the _aravel_.

“Come and see what I've brought you,” chirped Leliana, bubbling over with excitement. “Dalish clothing, but in Orlesian silks! Do you think it’s ever been done before?”

“You are truly an innovator of fashion, Leliana.” Theron chuckled, enjoying his friend's enthusiasm.

Leliana had been planning all this ever since he’d written and asked for her assistance in the wardrobe department, woefully ignorant of modern fashion as he was. Luckily, all he’d had to do was send all their measurements to her. After that, it was all in her hands, and that of her Orlesian tailors.

She unwrapped the parcel, and gently unfolded Theron’s robes. They appeared similar to the kind Circle mages wore, but she had taken inspiration from traditional Dalish clothing. The robes draped artfully to the floor, in vibrant shades of the forest. Gold swirling vines were embroidered all across the sleeves and around the collar, rising upwards from the hem as well, with a sash of the same colour to tie it all together.

Theron gaped. This was no ordinary garment. No expense had been spared on his account, it seemed. “That is magnificent! You have wonderful taste, Leliana.” He started waving his hands about frantically, urging to the dye to dry faster. The bard laughed, in her musical way.

“I tried not to over-complicate it,” the Orlesian mused. “You know how our fashion is. So over the top.”

“Says the lady who insisted my robes should have a long brocade train.” Theron shook his head. “Imagine what that would pick up from the forest floor!”

“But that gold thread was that extra touch of the dramatic the garment needed, no? I would not budge on that, and look how well it turned out.” Leliana countered, with the light of mischief in her eyes. “Also, I slipped a little special something into your parcel. That is for tonight, although I think you should put it on now.” She gave him a salacious wink. “That’s my wedding present to you, dear friend.”

Theron gazed at her with suspicion as he carefully picked apart the parcel with his fingertips. Then his narrowed eyes grew wide, his cheeks flushing pink. “Oh sweet _Ghilan’nain_ ,” he muttered. “Well, I can’t change into that while you’re here! And why that particular shade, may I ask?”

“You are now the arl of Amaranthine, are you not?” Her eyes twinkled still. “That word happens to describe a certain colour in Orlais, so I thought it fitting.”

“Very amusing. Help me into the robe, would you.” Theron gingerly took his shirt off, as he could wait no longer. Leliana guided the garment over Theron’s head, and slid the soft silk sleeves over her friend’s arms, cautious of the drying blue dye.

Theron let out a gasp of delight, as Leliana tied the golden sash around his waist. “This fabric feels wonderful! Such exquisite tailoring, too. Is this what Orlesian nobles wear every day?”

“Indeed,” Leliana replied, with sigh of longing and a faraway gaze. “They are so lucky.”

“Even on their…” The elf’s eyes were round with incredulity, as he gestured to the present Leliana had given him.

The bard sniggered. “Even there, yes.”

Theron was impressed by how the silk hugged him in just the right way, but it was far from restrictive. He twirled around, watching the fabric flowing around his body like water. “It’s quite breezy, isn’t it? Those mages must be very comfortable, walking around in robes all the time.”

“You are a vision, my dear friend,” Leliana told him, beaming with happiness for her companion. “Zevran is a very lucky man.”

Moved, Theron pulled her into a tight embrace, unable to contain all his gratitude for her, or express it with mere words. “Thank you, Leliana. Oh, I feel so spoiled.”

Leliana giggled into the hug. “You deserve a little spoiling, Hero of Ferelden.” The bard held him at arm’s length, the better to inspect him. “I would braid your hair up, but I heard Zevran say he likes your pretty locks free.” She squinted, turning Theron this way and that. “Are you sure I cannot persuade you to let me paint your face? Just a little bit?”

Theron hesitated. He did trust Leliana to make him look good.

“Fine! Just a little bit,” the elf warned.

Leliana squealed, reaching into her pack and whipping out a tiny brush and a pot of pigment. Theron sighed and tried not to fidget, again.

* * *

Alistair came trudging into the _aravel_ , with his distinctive footfall that Zevran would recognise anywhere. The assassin always thought it heavy and unsubtle, even when the warrior tried not to be.

“Just picked up Wynne at the guard post. She’s all settled in now, just freshening up. How are you holding up?”

The King of Ferelden shucked off his clothes unceremoniously in front of his friend, changing into the garment Leliana had brought him. Like the bard’s dress, he’d been given an outfit in the same shade of ironbark. Alistair liked that they weren’t as ostentatious as the stuff he had to wear nowadays as the head of state. What a relief it was, to walk around the Dalish camp as just Alistair, the Grey Warden, without the burden of royal duties hanging over his head. The Dalish were not the disingenuous sort, and would not bow and scrape before him like his courtiers. He liked that about them.

Zevran was sitting on the edge of his bedroll, the sleeves of his silk shirt rolled up, looking slightly queasy. His tunic and trousers were also the colours of the forest, with gold lining the edges. Ashalle had just decorated his hands, with strict instructions to let them dry before he touched anything. He looked up at his comrade and said with a weak grin,“You know, I think there are more butterflies in my stomach right now than the night before we took on the archdemon.”

“I can imagine,” Alistair said, trying to convey his sympathy with a pained expression. “I was like that too, the night before I got married to Anora. But that was, you know. More of a practical arrangement than anything.” His voice softened, as he looked at his Antivan comrade. “It’s different with Theron, though, isn’t it? He’s your… your amore.”

Zevran snorted. “My what now?”

“You know.” Alistair waved a careless hand. “Your amore. Your lover.”

The assassin burst into a fit of sniggering. “Oh, my dear Alistair. Hearing you say Antivan words in such a Ferelden accent… It brings me such amusement.”

“I try my best,” his companion said, sniffily. “Why are you nervous, anyhow? You’re the mighty Antivan Crow, Zevran Arainai.” Alistair smirked. “I bet there was probably a national day of mourning declared once news reached Antiva that you were off the market.”

“Well, I am no longer a Crow, and soon I will not be an Arainai as well. Funny, how my mother married out of the Dalish clan, and I am marrying back into it.” Zevran chuckled a little to himself, as he stared absently at the blue branches spread over the backs of his hands. “As a Crow, I feared nothing, because I had nothing to lose. And now…” He exhaled heavily, a leaden noise escaping his chest.

“And now, you have the most precious thing in the world, and you’re afraid of losing it.” Alistair came to sit next to him, and reached over to pat him on the shoulder. “Look, you know about The Calling, right?”

Zevran nodded. “He explained it to me, yes.”

“He and I, we don’t know when this ends for us - all we know is that it won’t be pleasant. It could be ten years, thirty years, but it’ll happen.” Alistair’s tone was more serious than Zevran could remember. “So, why do it at all if it’s going to end so terribly? The answer is, _because_ it is going to end so terribly.” He shrugged. “At least he’ll die a happily bonded Warden. And I know he will, because any idiot can see how happy you make him."

“You are right, of course,” Zevran replied with a smile. He elbowed his comrade with a friendly nudge. “When did you get so wise, o King of Ferelden?”

“You pick up these things when you’re a monarch,” Alistair answered airily, with a smirk. “Now, I’d help you with your hair, but I’d make a right pig’s ear of it. Actually, a little Orlesian birdie told me Theron thinks you look rather dashing with your hair loose.” He winked and nudged Zevran back. “Speaking of which, I’d better go check on the blushing bride.” Alistair got to his feet, brushing the dust off his fine clothes. “Got to go dispense more of that kingly wisdom, and all.”

“Excellent plan. Meanwhile, I will make sure our fine dwarven friend has not started sampling the barrels of elven mead just yet. Otherwise, there will be none left before the ceremony even begins.” The assassin rose too, and gave his comrade a brief hug. “Thank you, Alistair.”

“Hey, you two have saved my skin more times in battle than I care to count. I’m just happy for the both of you.” Alistair squeezed him back. “You deserve it.”

 _So do you,_ Zevran thought, but did not say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Dalish tradition I made up of pre-wedding hand-painting is based on henna or mehndi, but it's blue because I based it on woad instead.
> 
> I imagine Theron's robes looking like Thranduil's, almost.


	2. Chapter 2

Just a quiet little intimate ceremony, both grooms agreed. Just them and their friends, without the entire clan gawking, even if that was traditional. Theron had never been traditional, to begin with. And ever since coming back, he’d felt a little like a stranger in his own home. So much had happened to him since leaving, that the village who had raised him barely recognised him when he returned. But he had different family, now.

Their little party, divided in two, were traipsing through the forest just before sundown, when the evening light bathed everything in a soft golden glow. Theron, his trusty bard and his guardian had been led down one path by the Keeper’s second, Merrill. He hiked up the hem of his robes as he stepped through the undergrowth, feeling for all the world like a dainty maiden. Leliana had a firm hand on his elbow, making sure he would not trip. Ashalle was already sniffling into her handkerchief.

Meanwhile, his betrothed, their knight in shining armour, and lush dwarven friend traveled a different route. Oghren trailed behind, slightly inebriated as he always was, with Alistair keeping a close eye on him. Wynne, dressed in her formal mage robes, was there to make sure they didn’t all get lost.

Both paths converged, as they made their way to the lake, where Keeper Marethari was waiting for them by the serene water’s edge. Theron could not help but smile, reminded of the lake he and his betrothed had bathed in, once upon a time, so long ago. There had been a Blight, then.

“We’re going to have to adapt a little, Merrill,” the Keeper muttered to her second as she approached. For the benefit of their unusual audience, Keeper Marethari had translated most of their traditional vows into the common tongue, which had been quite tricky. Three _shem,_ one _durgen’len,_ and their hero marrying an Antivan flat-ears! _Who had ever heard of such a strange bonding ceremony,_ she thought.

But as the two grooms approached them, there was no questioning the love they had for each other. It was plain to see, just in the way they looked to one another upon their reunion. Zevran hastened his pace, eager to have his beloved in his arms. Theron sank into his embrace, and nudged their foreheads together, radiant with delight.

“ _Amore,_ you look magnificent,” the assassin whispered in his ear. “Surely I am not fit to gaze upon such beauty!”

Theron leaned back to drink in his partner’s appearance. “You are more handsome than ever, _ma vhenan,_ ” Theron murmured, transfixed by the light of happiness in his betrothed’s eyes, as he raised a hand to stroke a loose lock of hair, tucking it behind his ear. “I love your hair like this.”

“I feel the same way about yours.” Zevran grinned, running his fingers through the archer’s soft quicksilver tresses.

Leliana had outdone herself, of course. She’d drawn from Antivan fashion for her assassin friend, and had a jacket made in the military style for him, in deep emerald with gold trim. And of course, Zevran had found the perfect accessory to match.

Theron glanced down, taking in his betrothed’s incredible ensemble, and then paused as something caught his eye. “Are those…?”

“As if I would get married in anything but Antivan leather boots,” chuckled Zevran. “I would have the Dalish gloves too, but…” He wiggled his fingers to show off his painted hands.

“Be careful with that,” Theron told him. “It is said the longer the ink stays in your skin, the longer the union will be.”

Zevran’s head was cocked to the side, studying his partner’s face quite intently. His self-consciousness piqued, Theron asked, “What is it? Is there something on my face?” Then he remembered, and scoffed in amusement. “Leliana insisted. Does it look silly? I have never worn such a thing before.”

Leliana had painted a line of black around his eyes, just to accentuate them, smudging the pigment artfully and adding the tiniest bit of green shadow. It was understated, but effective.

“Quite the opposite. You look like a beautiful woodland spirit, ready to lure me away to an otherworldly realm to have your wicked way with me.” The corners of Zevran’s lips quirked up. “And I, for one, would gladly follow.”

The edge of the sun was just beginning to dip past the horizon. Keeper Marethari announced it was time. Wynne stepped forward to give the Keeper a length of silk cord she had braided herself, in the same gold and green that the couple were adorned in, then retreated to join the others at a respectful distance.

“Please, join your hands,” Keeper Marethari announced. The pair locked dominant hands, threading their fingers together. “This rope symbolises the intertwining of your fates. As your hands are bonded by this rope, so too, are your souls bonded in the eyes of the Creators.” She wound the silk rope around their hands, knotting it firmly twice, then gestured for them to exchange the traditional vows with each other. Zevran gazed at his beloved, and the sunset gleam made his eyes shine with emotion even moreso. He took a deep breath, and spoke.

“You cannot own me, for I own myself. But while we wish, I give what is mine to give. You cannot command me, for I am a free person, but I shall serve you in the ways you need. You shall have the first cut of my meat, the first sip of my wine, and the fruit shall taste sweet, coming from my hand. This is the union of equals.”

“I promise to you my living and my dying, each equally in your care. Yours shall be the name I cry aloud in the night, and yours shall be the eyes into which I smile in the morning.” Theron’s cheeks betrayed the slightest hint of a blush, and Zevran grinned. “I shall be your armour, as you are mine. I shall worship and praise you through this life, and into Uthenera. Our bond is sacred with us. This is my vow to you.”

The Keeper fixed the couple with her gentle, yet sombre gaze, and said, “On this day of your bonding, you hold the hands of your betrothed, strong and full of love as the promises you have made to each other. These are the hands that will work together with yours to build your future, and care for you through the years. These are the hands that will hold you when fear clouds your mind, that will wipe the tears from your eyes, both of sorrow and joy. And these are the hands, that even in your darkest hour, will still reach for yours, to show you tenderness with their touch. Now, recite the Dalish vow with me.”

“ _Sylaise enaste var aravel. Lama, ara las mir lath. Bellanaris,_ ” the both of them echoed, speaking their words to each other, their audience, and to the Creators.

The Keeper banged her staff into the earth of the riverbank twice, then declared, “Theron Mahariel and Zevran Mahariel are henceforth bonded.”

Zevran lost no time in kissing his new husband, cupping a decorated hand on his beloved’s cheek to pull him close. He could feel his beloved's lips, curved into a smile against his. To no one’s surprise, they’d gotten a little carried away. The Keeper allowed them two minutes before she cleared her throat loudly.

“Can you blame me, though?” the assassin said, flashing her a cheeky grin in his defense, while Theron gave her a sheepish smile.

There was not a dry eye among their party. Ashalle and Leliana were openly weeping onto each other’s shoulders. Alistair was wiping his face with his hands clumsily, and Wynne was dabbing at her eyes with the sleeve of her robes, but bawling the loudest of all was Oghren, to everyone’s surprise, though the dwarf tended to get quite sentimental when he was tipsy.

Hand in bound hand, they walked back to the Dalish settlement with their friends, the newly bonded couple unable to stop their broad grins at each other. And the second their motley crew had broken the treeline at the edge of the camp, a mighty eruption of cheering came from the entire clan. It did not stop until they reached the camp’s fireside, where the other elves and their _shemlen_ guests were eager to crack open the barrels of mead, determined to make merry. As they approached, a little Dalish girl, dressed in her best clothes, sidled up to him with wreaths of forest flowers woven together in her hands.

“I made this for you,” she said, shyly. “So you’d look pretty on your bonding day.”

“Nyla!” Theron exclaimed. “It’s beautiful! Oh, thank you.”

The little elf beckoned them to bend down. They bowed low, and she placed them on the bonded couple’s head like a solemn blessing. Then she ran back to her mother’s side, red in the face.

Some of his clanmates had started banging their drums in raucously joyous celebration, accompanied by fiddles. Once they had gotten unfastened - Zevran had insisted on holding on to the silk rope “so that we might do a little rope bonding of our own later, hm?” - they joined in the revelry.

According to tradition, the couple would bring the first drink of mead to Ashalle from the feast table, to honour her as Theron’s guardian. They approached a long, low wooden table that was laden full of fruit, fresh game from the hunt, with an entire pig roasting on a spit at the far end. Flagons upon flagons of mead were scattered all over it, and large wheels of halla cheese as well, but right in the middle there was...

Theron gasped. “Is that… is that a statue of Sylaise? Carved from halla butter?” It was the height of a man’s arm, and the centrepiece of the feast table. He rushed over for a closer look, then gaped at the Antivan in astonishment. “Did you have something to do with this?”

“I might have made a request to your halla keeper,” Zevran explained, a cheeky smile spreading from ear to ear. “I believe Wynne has put a Winter’s Breath charm on it, so that it will not melt.”

“You remembered!” Theron cried, kissing the other elf on the cheek.

“Of course I remember the things you tell me,” Zevran huffed.

“I will admit, it is quite the fitting tribute to Tamlen,” laughed the archer, giving it a wistful smile. “Thank you, _vhenan._ ”

Bearing goblets of drink, they found Ashalle speaking to Wynne and the Keeper. The three ladies that had watched over the path of his life the most had met at last, and the thought made him smile. Ashalle began sobbing anew when he presented her the goblet, while Zevran served Keeper Marethari her cup of mead with a respectful bow.

“Thank the Creators that I have lived to see this day, even if your parents could not.” Ashalle sniffled into his chest, as the archer held his guardian, heart full of fondness for her.

“They would be so proud of you, _da’len_.” Keeper Marethari laid a reassuring hand on Theron’s arm.

Overcome with emotion, Ashalle hugged Zevran too, and said, “Welcome to the family, dear”. The Antivan seemed surprised, but pleased, as he patted the tearful woman on the back to comfort her.

“Will you be telling embarrassing childhood stories about this one later on, perhaps?” Zevran waggled an eyebrow at her.

She gave him a little playful smack on the shoulder. “Don’t tempt me.”

The next cup would be for his mentor, for Wynne had been his font of wisdom throughout their journey. He handed the other cup to her, but not before she embraced them each with a tight squeeze.

“Congratulations, dear. It brings joy to this old lady’s heart, to see the two of you so happy together.” She smacked her lips together after a hearty swig, her first taste of elven mead. “I must say, this is exquisite! Such a deep amber colour, the sweetness from the honey... and that hint of smoked wood!”

“There’s enough for both you _and_ Oghren, never fear.” The Warden grinned at her, nudging her with his elbow. “Will you dance with me later?”

“Maybe after a few more drinks,” she demurred, with a wry smile.

But it was not long into their feasting of game and swilling of mead before Alistair was more than happy to dance. He was already two goblets down, and tripping over his feet as he tried to teach Junar and Pol to dance the Remigold. Fenarel had collapsed on the floor, crying with laughter. Theron was in danger of joining him, though fortunately he was propped up by his very amused husband. Stumbling over each other, they all collapsed in a heap, roaring with mirth. The archer rose and reached out a hand to help his comrade up.

“I haven’t had this much fun since that tavern brawl in Lothering!” Alistair shouted as he got to his feet, a little louder than necessary. He caught his smaller elf companion in an enthusiastic bear hug. “You’re my best friend in all of Thedas,” Alistair yelled over the music. “I hope you know that.”

“You are my best friend too.” Theron sighed, resigning himself to his fate of being squashed into the warrior’s broad chest for the foreseeable future. “You are such a lightweight,” he grunted in discomfort.

Just then, the musicians struck up a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Theron heard an Antivan voice say, “I’m afraid I require my husband, my friend”, and then Zevran managed to extricate him from Alistair’s grasp. Once free, he inhaled deeply. Having regained full use of his lungs really made him appreciate breathing. Then he noticed his husband, who had extended a painted hand to the archer.

“May I have this dance, my dear?”

“Of course, ser,” Theron responded, giving him a little mock-curtsey. He placed a bow-calloused hand in his beloved’s, and Zevran wrapped an arm around the archer’s waist. The drumbeats were deep and sensual now, the strings hauntingly beautiful, and the pair swayed together in time. They had never danced like this before now, but it seemed to happen intuitively between them - after all, there had been other kinds of dances, and they knew each other’s bodies well enough. It was easy to forget that it was not just the two of them.

“How long more before it is polite to excuse ourselves, do you think?” asked Zevran. Theron felt a teasing touch run up his side, and caught the little glimmer of hope in his lover’s heated gaze.

“Already?” Theron smirked, and answered by trailing his hand over the assassin’s chest. “The night is young, yet.”

“But I am not getting any younger.” A hand stroked down his spine, and rested tantalisingly at his lower back, pulling him even closer. “And you are not getting any less desirable. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“Patience, husband,” Theron murmured, his breath ghosting over the shell of the other elf’s ear, and giving it a little nip.

“ _Amore,_ you know what happens when you do that,” Zevran warned. He pressed their bodies together with a sharp tug, rolling his hips just once. “Oh, I shall have such fun with you tonight.”

Theron’s body moved with his lover’s to a seamless rhythm, but his reply was breathless. “Now you’re just playing dirty.”

“Why, this is how Antivans dance, my dear.” Zevran threaded his fingers through the archer’s hair, cupping the base of his neck. “Like making love on the dance floor.”

“I am not surprised, given the vices of your countrymen.” The archer, under the guise of resting his head on his beloved’s shoulder, brushed his lips for a moment too long under Zevran’s jaw.

Zevran grasped his lover’s chin in one hand, brushing a thumb over his lower lip, with a mischievous smile. “What is the purpose of dance otherwise?”

Then he leaned in to kiss Theron, and felt the other’s longing escape him in the way he moaned into Zevran’s mouth. Even as he pulled back, Zevran felt his lover chase his lips, slipping his tongue between them. The Dalish elf had taken to Orlesian kissing like the qunari to war. If his mouth were not so busy, it would have been grinning.

“Get an _aravel!_ ” they heard Merrill shout from across the feast table, as peals of laughter sounded from the elves around her.

“We should take their advice, no?” The assassin’s grin was quite roguish. His partner seemed reluctant to leave their guests, but Zevran reminded him, “There will be another day of celebrations tomorrow… at least for those still standing after tonight, of course.”

“You’re right.” Theron’s face was lined with determination. It was his bonding night, damn it. He could do whatever he wished. “Let’s go.”

Zevran did not need telling twice, hoisting his new husband into his arms. Theron squealed, loud enough for the others to notice, and clung on for dear life. As Zevran walked off with his prize, flashing his teeth in a most wolfish manner, there came a loud chorus of whooping and whistling from their companions and clanmates alike. There was even a drunken dwarven bellow of “Attaboy!” from the fireside, while the three older ladies were giggling and shaking their heads at the young lovers. The last thing Theron saw before being swept into their _aravel_ was Leliana’s knowing smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ceremony is based on the Celtic handfasting. The vows are adapted from traditional Celtic vows, and the Dalish vows are canon from the Trespasser DLC. The serving mead tradition is a little bit based on a Chinese wedding practice.
> 
> Also I know I'm messing with canon a tiny bit, mostly with Merrill being there, but [throws DA2 out the window].


	3. Chapter 3

Zevran kicked the door to their _aravel_ shut with the heel of one fine boot without so much as a glance backward, his groom still in his arms. The door had hardly closed before they picked up where they left off, kissing fiercely in between trying to divest each other of their complicated clothing. A haphazard trail of Orlesian silk followed them, all the way to their plush bedroll. No doubt Leliana would have something to say about their treatment of fine garments, if only she knew.

And then they’d collapsed on it together, laughing and half-dressed, though Theron’s giggles quickly turned to whimpers once Zevran’s teeth found his neck. A brief pause in his torment, as Theron was treated to the sight of Zevran stripping off his shirt. The rogue was smirking at the appreciative, open-mouthed stare as he did so, while reverent hands roamed his body.

His smug expression was quickly replaced by one of shock and awe, though, when he’d pushed apart the archer’s robes and thighs at last. Between them were silk smallclothes the bard had procured for him in Orlais, in a rich plum colour. Zevran was staring, and Theron would later swear up and down on every Creator that his husband had definitely been drooling.

“That was Leliana’s present to me,” Theron breathed, feeling quite on display, face reddening and cock hardening from the thrill of being so exposed.

“And me, it would appear. That woman is Andraste herself,” declared the Antivan, kneeling between the archer’s spread thighs in something like worship. “It suits you very well, my dear Warden,” he said, as he bowed his head lower for his benediction.

Theron shuddered, his legs spread as Zevran teased his fingertips over where the smooth fabric was tented obscenely. He nearly howled, when he felt the wet heat from his husband’s mouth through the silk, teasing him so exquisitely. “Take them off before I ruin them,” he whispered.

“Ruin them further, you mean.” Zevran grinned, but did as he was bade. He eased it down his Warden’s thighs and off, groaning happily at the lovely sight of Theron already leaking with arousal. “I must have my mouth on your beautiful cock, _amore._ ”

He wrapped his fingers around Theron, dragging the flat of his tongue up the underside of his cock slowly, sucking kisses up and down his length. Now was the time to pull out the various tricks he learned from the Antivan whores, making his Warden writhe and beg, making him clutch at the blonde locks between his thighs.

“Don’t tease, _vhenan_ ,” moaned the Dalish elf.

“We have all night, my sweet,” Zevran pointed out, lips curving up slyly. “That Warden stamina is quite handy, no? I wonder how many times I can bring you over the edge. I am quite certain I could manage it with just my mouth.”

“I knew it. You’re some manner of desire demon in disguise, aren’t you.” Theron glared, even as his cock twitched with want in his lover’s hand, at the mere suggestion of it. Zevran’s smile was wicked now. He took Theron into his mouth, all at once, and his lover’s cries were sweet to his ears, as the archer’s hips bucked up roughly into his mouth. Theron’s back was arched in such a pretty manner, to have more of the assassin’s sinful mouth. Zevran did not mind at all, caressing the crests of the other elf’s hipbones as he sucked him off.

“Zevran, I won’t last,” Theron pleaded. But Zevran did not relent, dragging his hips even closer until he had swallowed him all the way down to the root, sucking harder. Theron threw his head back and wailed as he came down Zevran’s throat, his grip almost painful in the Antivan’s hair, just the way Zevran liked it.

The assassin sat up, panting and wiping his smirk clean. He let his beloved lie there, dazed and panting, while he rummaged around in the chest beside their bed. He was about to retrieve their usual bottle of oil reserved for such occasions, but noticed a couple of little red vials by their bedroll. Eyebrows furrowed, he picked one up to examine it, then sniggered. “It would appear one of our guests has left us stamina draughts.”

Theron let out a breathless bark of laughter. “Oghren, probably. That dwarf and his dirty little mind.”

“Come and sit on my lap, _amore_.”

Zevran sat back, a handsome smirk playing at his lips, beckoning to his lover with fingers covered in oil. Theron did not need telling twice, swinging one knee over the assassin’s thighs, until he was straddling them. He cupped Zevran’s face in his hands, as the Antivan leaned in to kiss him, wrapping an arm around his waist and tugging him even closer.  Theron took care to tease his tongue into the other elf’s mouth, as Zevran’s hands were busy massaging at his _derriere_ , as the assassin had called it in Orlesian.

Theron let out an urgent moan into the kiss, when he felt the first press of a slick finger against his hole. In response, he pushed his hips back, urging the finger inside him. They had done this often enough, so that it was a little easier than when Theron was new. Zevran, of course, knew just how to ease his lover open with his clever fingers.

“You will tell me if it hurts, hm?” came Zevran’s hushed whisper against his lips, as a second finger slid in beside the first. He stroked his other hand down the archer’s lean, muscled back.

Theron slid his arms around his beloved’s neck, his thighs wide apart and trembling, as Zevran fucked him open on three fingers now, crooking them in just the right way. His cock was helplessly dripping wet against his stomach. Zevran had noticed, of course, leaning back to drink in the sight of his lover. He looked so good like this, so delightfully debauched. Next time Zevran would make him leave the silk on. He adored how responsive Theron’s body was to his touch, and his voice was husky when he asked, “Would you like to come on my fingers?”

“No!” Theron choked out. He could not take any more teasing. “No, I need you inside me, _ma vhenan._ ”

“Then who am I to deny you your pleasure, my Warden,” Zevran chuckled, then gave a sharp gasp. Theron had nabbed the bottle of oil from him, and then there was a slick hand around his cock, stroking him. He had been hard ever since he had laid eyes on his lover’s silk-clothed cock, probably even before that, and he did not think he could stand it any longer. With Theron still astride him, he rested a reassuring hand on the other elf’s hip, then eased the head of his cock just inside. It was enough already to make Theron cry out loud, wanting to take more of him.

“Slowly, slowly,” Zevran reminded him, as the other rogue hissed. He’d lowered himself down onto his lover just a little too hastily. “Take your time, my sweet.”  

“I’m fine,” Theron whispered, eyes tight shut, overwhelmed with sensation. “ _Fenedhis,_ you feel so thick.”

Zevran let out a breathless little laugh. “You say such dirty things with such a sweet tongue, my Warden.”

Theron was filled completely with Zevran now, all the way to the hilt, panting with the effort and the pleasure. Zevran pulled out, tantalisingly slow, then thrust back in just the same, as Theron let out a long, liquid moan.

“Ride me, _amore,_ ” Zevran breathed in his ear.

The archer clutched at Zevran’s shoulders as he lowered his hips, gasping as he fucked himself on the assassin’s cock. Zevran rocked into him, pressing deep inside his lover, their hips grinding together in yet another dance. He was suddenly very glad for those stamina draughts - he did not think he would last much longer.

Like this, it was so easy to sink his teeth into the other elf’s neck, marking all that lovely pale skin with purple blooms of bruising, the bigger the better. They made Theron whimper shamelessly, Zevran discovered some time ago, as did saying the filthiest things he could think of in the Warden’s ear.

“You take my cock so well,” the Antivan purred. “Look at you. Such a wanton picture you make. You make the most delicious noises, every time I sink into that tight hole of yours.”

“Zevran, please,” Theron gasped. He was so close, biting his lip as he reached down to stroke himself, almost painfully hard now, rolling his hips at desperate pace.

“ _Si_ , come for me, _amore,_ ” the rogue growled, making his thrusts deeper and harder. “I want to hear you scream with pleasure as you come on my cock. I want to fill you up inside, until you are dripping from your pretty hole.”

Theron came with a cry so loud he was sure the others outside would hear, his nails turning to claws at Zevran’s back, as he spilled all over the assassin’s stomach and his own hand. The Antivan, who relished the harsh lines of pain across his skin, gripped his hips in both hands, fucking him roughly now. Theron clung to him, sobbing with how good it felt, dancing on the edge of oversensitivity. And then Zevran was coming hard inside his beloved, with breathless groans pouring from his lips, fingers digging tight enough into Theron’s hipbones to leave more bruises.

It was difficult to disentangle themselves, after that. No one wanted to be the first to move. Finally, Zevran nudged Theron to lie on his back, and slid out of him as gently as he could, though it still made both of them whimper. Zevran collapsed by his side, as they both tried to catch their breaths. Theron stole the opportunity to roll over to rest his head on the other elf's heaving chest, long silver hair tickling his side, even if they were too sweaty for cuddling at that moment.

“Well!” The Warden let out a sigh of satisfaction. “I think it’s safe to say we have well and truly consummated our bond.”

Zevran laughed, a sound warmer than an Antivan summer. “Hand me a stamina draught and we could consummate it all over again, if you wish.”

The assassin glanced down and saw his husband - _his husband -_ peering up at him through half-lidded eyes, his full mouth curving easily in a lazy smile when Zevran caught the other elf's eye.

“ _Ar lath ma, vhenan,_ ” Theron murmured, tracing fingertips over his beloved’s cheek. Zevran could not help but lean down to press his lips to that smile, which grew wider.

“I love you too, _amore.”_

* * *

Theron woke reluctantly, against his will, when a beam of sunlight hit him square in the face. Wincing, he cracked one eye open. The door of their _aravel_ had slid open just wide enough to admit a tray with two cups of tea on it, along with leftovers - cold cuts of meat, slices of cheese and fruit - from last night’s feast. He squinted. Through the gap, he saw Leliana’s cheerful face. Theron hurriedly snatched a blanket to himself for the sake of modesty, and then scurried over to take the tray from her.

“Look at your neck!” she whispered in hushed glee, poking at his love-bites. “They are the same colour as your present! I take it he liked it?”

“I don’t know,” he hissed back, blushing beet-red at the memory of it. “It stayed on for all of two minutes!”

“Ah, then it worked.” Leliana winked. “I brought you sustenance, for round two. Enjoy.” And then she disappeared, the door sliding shut as quietly as the bard could manage.

Zevran was stirring, the light sleeper that he was, as he woke to the slightest of noises. It was something he’d learned from his days as an assassin. Theron glanced over at his husband. _My husband_ , he thought _._ It sent a thrill through him, every time he remembered that. It was like that when he had gotten his _vallaslin,_ forgetting it was on his face, and then catching sight of it in a reflective surface. Everything, and yet nothing, had changed between them.

“Are they beginning the festivities this early?” Zevran complained in a sleep-rusty voice, stretching and yawning.

Theron paused for a moment, to appreciate the sight of his lover’s nude form barely draped in sheets, staring at the lovely expanse of honey-coloured skin, blessed by the sun and golden in the dawn light. He brought the tray closer, setting it beside them. “Leliana brings refreshments, husband.”

“Oh?” Zevran’s tired face brightened. “Then she is forgiven.” He lay across his lover’s lap like a large Antivan housecat, and allowed Theron to drop fruit into his mouth, as he chewed happily with his eyes closed. The Dalish elf giggled, and Zevran reached up to stroke his cheek in fondness.

“So, was it everything you wanted in a bonding celebration as a boy?” Zevran teased, the corners of his lips upturned.

“Everything and more,” sighed Theron. “My only regret is that some of our companions could not join us.”

“Oh, our qunari friend would have been the absolute life of the party,” Zevran lamented, but he was still grinning. “What a shame.” He helped himself to a slice of cured meat, then said, “There is just one thing missing - I would have asked for silk sheets. Ah, but those are a real treat to make love on.”

“Next time we visit Alistair in Denerim, I’ll make sure to put in a request,” promised Theron with a laugh. “What shall we do with the rest of our morning?”

“There is still that length of silk rope…” Zevran suggested hopefully.

Quick as a whip, the lithe archer rolled on top of his husband, pinning him to the bedroll with his muscular thighs. And by the impish look on Zevran’s face, he appeared to be quite happy with his predicament.

“Good thing we have a stamina draught left, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The silk underwear is plum because like Leliana says in the first chapter, amaranthine means purple XD


End file.
